


This Auction is Now Closed

by missmollyetc



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long way to Topeka, and they've got nothing but time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Auction is Now Closed

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/profile)[**minervacat**](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/). If anyone has a problem with this blatant favoritism, I will be accepting any and all bribes at my livejournal and assorted other places of worship. Thank you! The prompt, incidentally, is included in the dialogue.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[bandslash](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/bandslash), [fob](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/fob)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **BANDSLASH FIC: This Auction is Now Closed (FOB 1/1)** _

Title: This Auction is Now Closed

Author: [](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/profile)[**missmollyetc**](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/)

Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: It's a long way to Topeka, and they've got nothing but time.

Disclaimer: Pete, you're lovely, now go away. And don't get any ideas. No, no seriously, EVERYONE OUT OF THE POOL, NOW.

Author's note: This was written for [](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/profile)[**minervacat**](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/). If anyone has a problem with this blatant favoritism, I will be accepting any and all bribes at my livejournal and assorted other places of worship. Thank you! The prompt, incidentally, is included in the dialogue.

Author's note (2): Thank you [](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/profile)[**dsudis**](http://dsudis.livejournal.com/) for betaing in the face of extreme desperation. Bless you! And may your shadow never grow bulkier.

 

 

 

The bus was halfway to Topeka, Patrick assumed, when Pete started talking again. He'd been suspiciously quiet since they'd merged onto the highway for the second leg of the tour, sitting curled into the furthest corner of the bus 'couch' with his knees up to his chest. His hoodie—probably Travis' going from the size—swallowed him from the coarse spikes of his dark head to the worn spots on the knees of his jeans. If he'd been watching—which Patrick was _not_—he might have looked kind of…sweet. That eyeliner-abusing, overly-caffeinated son of a bitch.

Patrick hunched his shoulders, and squinted at his computer screen, watching the tiny cursor turn over and over, digitized sand pouring from either end of the counter. GarageBand had been taking for-fucking-ever to compile ever since he'd fallen asleep and drooled on the keyboard. He shifted against the bus bench, arching his back just a little to relieve the strain on his spine. The sun warmed the back of his neck, hot through the collar of his t-shirt and the folds of his hoodie. His stained jeans scratched over his knees, stiff with dried Pepsi. He cracked his knuckles, popping the joints one after the other and Pete made a noise in his throat. Patrick ground his teeth.

"Fisting," Pete said.

"No," Patrick said, fighting the sudden tic in his left eyebrow.

He opened up Solitaire and blinked a sudden rash of sun-spots from his eyes as the electronic cards shuffled into place. Maybe he'd been on the computer a little too much today. Pete made rustling noises, and Patrick glanced over to see Pete on his knees, inching across the vinyl-covered bench in Patrick's direction. Patrick breathed hard through his nose, and refocused on the card game. He could put the black seven on the red—

"Anal?"

"No."

On the red eight, and then the red queen on the black king which opened up the four he nee—

"Double anal!"

"_Pete!_" Andy yelled from the bunk area. "We can fucking _hear_ you!"

"Then come up with a better idea, motherfucker!" Pete shouted.

He threw his arms out from his sides with a wild swing, barely avoiding smacking the window with one hand. Patrick pulled his laptop closer to his chest, and glared. Pete froze, eyes wide.

"How about 'Don't say you're sorry with _porn_?" Joe asked, popping his head into the front lounge from the bunks. "Or, 'Wow, Patrick, I didn't know your voice could get that shr—"

"Not _helping_, Joe," Patrick said.

Pete flopped down on his back with a groan. Patrick's face grew hot, blood rushing to pulse in his forehead. He shook his head, tugging on the brim of his hat for good measure and thought calming thoughts. Kittens. Trees with new leaves in the spring. Leaving Pete's cold, dead body by the side of the road and laughing as he sped away into the night. _Laughing._

"Dude, he took my clothes too," Joe said, leaning further into the room.

Patrick gripped his computer tightly with both hands. Joe's shirt said 'Truckers Do It On The Road' in big, white, block lettering across the front, courtesy of the crew bus. His pants were Andy's last remaining pair of basketball shorts, which they'd found lodged into a corner of the back lounge. Patrick, however, refused to change his clothes _ever again._ Whatever. Gerard Way did it all the time.

"He auctioned _mine_ on Ebay," Patrick said. "With an extra mark up for my 'authentic sweat.' I think Brendon Urie might have bid on my underwear."

Joe's head waggled back and forth. He scratched his chin, digging his thumb under his jaw. "…He gets point for originality there, okay," he said, "but he threw mine and Andy's in a bonfire."

"Which he started behind the venue," Andy called out.

"In the parking lot!" Pete broke in, sitting up and leaning forward on the edge of the bench. "Dude, I've had worse fires at my _house_. And you totally helped, Andy, you had the matches in the first place!"

"I was promised vegan marshmallows," Andy said. "You owe me, Wentz."

Joe glanced over his shoulder, and nodded.

"He helped with the _fire_," Patrick said, fingers twitching on his keyboard. "Not the part where you took all our clothes and…did things to them."

"Jesus, you make it sound like I jerked off onto your bunk, or something," Pete muttered.

He threw himself against the bench, crossing his arms over his chest. Patrick raised his eyebrows in Joe's direction. Joe shook his head.

"Naw, man, Andy checked."

Well, at least there was that. Patrick stretched his neck, twisting his chin to the left and then the right. A cramp, or something, popped in his shoulder, unknotting with a sudden pang.

"Hot oil massage?" Pete offered.

"Stay away from my clothes," Patrick said, shifting further down the bench.

Joe snorted. He raised his hands, palms out, and backed up from the doorway. "I'll just let you guys sort this out, okay? I've got a drummer to school in the fine art of Donkey Kong."

"In your fucking dreams," Andy said as the door to the bunk area swished closed.

The computer dinged, and Patrick dragged his index finger across the mouse pad, minimizing the solitaire game in favor of GarageBand. The bridge looked like it might actually be a song at some point, especially if he could get the drum track to sound like music, and not a Godzilla sound effect. Patrick chewed his lower lip, sucking at his teeth. Actually…that might be interesting. He flicked the computer arrow up to the double click the EQ and Pete's hand crawled over his thigh. Patrick's hands stilled on his keyboard.

"Go back to your corner, Pete," he said clearly.

"It's uncomfortable and lonely," Pete said.

"Fuck off and die."

Pete sidled closer across the bench, warm all along Patrick's side. His hand pressed down on Patrick's thigh, fingers digging slightly into the inner seam of Patrick's jeans. Patrick coughed.

"I can totally make this up to you," Pete said.

"Can you get my clothes back?" Patrick asked, leaning his head back and to the left so he could glare at Pete.

Pete frowned, shifting back a little. "Dude, I'd lose my feedback score. I've already bought all these stamps, and Dirty's—"

"_Pete._"

"Oh come on, Patrick!" Pete leaned forward again, popping a kiss on Patrick's mouth and sitting back just far enough to push his nose into Patrick's neck.

"Love me anyway," he said, lips nuzzling past the layers of Patrick's clothes to his skin.

Patrick swallowed, licking his lips. "Stop it," he said.

Pete's hand slipped from his thigh to the crotch of his Patrick's jeans. His fingers rubbed in circles down Patrick's fly and further along, following the seam of his jeans to just behind Patrick's balls. His chapped lips mouthed at Patrick's neck. His tongue licked a stripe up to his ear.

"Put the Mac down and let me apologize," Pete said.

Patrick's head tilted back. "Yeah," he said, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay."


End file.
